


A Good Day Ain't Got No Rain

by SDJ2



Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: Canon Compliant, Cry with me, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, No Dialogue, No Plot/Plotless, Non-Graphic Smut, RPF, Song Lyrics, but there's still hope for them, now I'm sad, sob sob sob, the ending isn't so happy, well kind of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:35:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24475108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SDJ2/pseuds/SDJ2
Summary: Today is a good day.
Relationships: Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	A Good Day Ain't Got No Rain

**Author's Note:**

> This is...in fact, I don't know what this is. While listening to Paul's "Slip-sliding Away", this came to me. I've always loved the line 'A good day ain't got no rain', and this melancholic (and erotic) scene just popped into my head, so I tried to write about it. It's explicit but then again I tried not to be too graphic but more implicit. :)
> 
> Anyway, it's also not as fluffy as my other fic, so be warned. It doesn't have the happiest of endings, kind of. 
> 
> In my head, this took place around the time of the Central Park concert. Maybe even that same night. I imagined them as nearing their forties.

Today has been a good day.

It’s dark now, the day’s light has disappeared behind the clouds and the horizon like a hot air balloon’s descent into a meadow.

A meadow of roses, no, poppies, or no…forget-me-nots, boasting the same colour as his own eyes, reflected in the brown ones of the face before him. He hasn’t forgotten, remembers everything, every minute detail.

The familiar face stares back at him. He knows every nook and cranny of that face. Every wrinkle, every bump and blemish, every hair and every pore.

If Art were to be asked to draw a map of Paul’s face, he’d be able to do it in an instant. His pencil would birth black and grey strokes, soft, smooth lines of nose and chin, pressing harder, blacker, on the cheekbones. Every hair of Paul’s eyebrows would be accounted for, dotted here and there with albino strays. _Now the years are passing by me…_

He would connect the dots of emotions in Paul’s eyes and draw hyperbolic cosines of his lips.

Paul’s perfect lips, that have formed beautiful verses of words and sounds and whispers in his ears on good days, but, very much like a volcanic ash simmering underground until it is pushed to the surface, have spewed rivers of molten profanities directed at him just as well, on a bad day.

But, today is a good day.

Today there is heat without acidity in the sounds leaving Paul’s lips. Art revels in them, wants to keep them, and captures them with his own lips.

Paul holds him close and down, his body a paperweight on top of him, and behind him a cushion pressing into his back, effectively hampering any flight. Tom will not be catching any plane this evening.

The kiss is searing, charring his tongue, and devouring him whole. The next touch of Paul’s lips on his cheek, moving down to his neck, feels too light and insignificant compared to its predecessor, but is welcomed all the same.

Pressure, a pop, and blue blood rushes to the surface of his neck, just next to his adam’s apple. A bruise, or a mark. He likes to be marked by Paul. Yours, Art. Like the letters he used to send Paul from across the ocean. Yours, sincerely. Yours, always, forever.

His fingers fumble and catch the prong of Paul’s belt buckle. Muscle memory aids him while Paul’s tongue is drawing figures of eight in his ear; the belt is open and the underlying button popped in no time. His reward is a cheeky grin and a congregation of crow’s feet near Paul’s eyes. Paul’s skillful fingers have made their way to his scalp, where they exercise in a steady rhythm of press and tug. Paul probably knows his way through every curl on Art’s head.

Paul’s hands journey downwards and grope at Art’s shirt, a frown appearing between his brows. Art wants to smooth it out. He knows the cause is his indecision in the morning and his questionable choice in habit. Six buttons, hindering Paul’s wandering hands on the way to Art’s lower body.

Art has a zipper to take care of. One more layer, one little moment of hesitation, one even smaller nod of approval by Paul and a closing of eyes and finally, finally he feels Paul’s flesh, warm and heavy in his hand. It comes alive under his gaze, and he strokes languidly, slowly, deliberately eliciting soft moans from its owner.

Despite their waning youth, he feels himself grow impossibly hard at the sight. Paul catches on, feels his arousal, eyes no longer closed but looking, memorizing, locking onto the next target.

Art wants, needs friction now. He bats away Paul’s hand near his fly, and opens his trousers himself, before long having both of their lengths engulfed by his hand. It’s dizzying. His head is buzzing, as if a swarm of bees has nestled in his brains. One hand of Paul’s paws at Art’s chest hair, with the other Paul gets rid of his own t-shirt in one unthinkable maneuver.

Art grips Paul’s bare shoulder, silently asking for something, anything. Paul understands, shifts, gets up from his lap. He bends, lets his trousers drop to the floor, steps out of them and stands before Art, fully naked, beautiful and without a trace of embarrassment. Leaning on old, familiar ways.

Paul is sturdily built, and this, much like his voice, has always been in perfectly balanced harmony with Art's own slender form. They were born to be together like this, each of them holding the one, the only key to unlock the other.

Art, turned on beyond measure, is paralyzed. Death by extasy is his fate. Paul, thank god, still has his wits about him somehow and magically manages to free him from his trousers. Before long, the weight on his lap is back.

A cap is pulled open. Paul is a psychic. Paul gets his news from the weather report. Paul has predicted a good day. Paul always comes prepared. Or Paul has wished for this just as much as he has. He could take his pick, but every option now rings true.

Art hisses as a cool liquid drips on him. Paul’s coated hands stroke him. Then, Art’s eyes widen in intoxicated anticipation as Paul works himself open, one finger first, adding a second, maybe a third, never averting his gaze from Art’s, savoring being watched as they’re both on the verge of coming apart at the seams.

They’ve perfected their sounds of silence over the years. No words need to be spoken. Art knows when Paul is ready, but lets him take the lead. Paul does, he rises to his knees, positions himself and lowers himself down again, all in one fluid movement, hesitation nonexistent. Paul’s facial expression betrays only the smallest notion of pain or discomfort.

The heat that engulfs Art and spreads through his lower regions is unearthly. He stays still, all the while he is floating, sinking until he reaches the bottom of the ocean that is Paul, Paul’s waves lapping at him, around him, and he is drowning. But Paul breathes life into him, touches his face, willing Art to look at him.

Once eyes are locked, that’s when Paul moves.

Never has there been anything more beautiful than the sight he beholds next. Paul throws his head back further with each thrust, presenting Art with access to his bare neck. He doesn’t, can’t let this opportunity go to waste. You bruise me? I bruise you…he surges forward to nibble at the sensitive skin right above Paul’s collarbone in retaliation.

Any lack in height of Paul’s is made up by the amount of strength in his legs. Art is uselessly, mercifully left to come undone, seated, while being ridden, the pace and both of their breaths quickening almost imperceptibly.

His nerves are screaming, each time Paul sinks down on him causing hot, white flashes to appear before his eyes. The beehive in his head has collectively moved to his lower belly and is running amok there.

Yet Paul goes first, thrashing on top of him, groaning, stroking himself through the final moments before spilling his seed in long, hot spurts, covering Art’s navel, weaving a path along a mole above his hip bone, and finally staining part of the sofa beneath them.

The visual alone would send Art over the edge, but combined with Paul’s clenching, Art cannot stop the inevitable arrival of his own release, Paul still unabatedly moving above him, watching him come undone.

Ebb turns into flow, his orgasm arriving like a tidal wave, rushing to shore to sweep him off his feet. The last thing he hears before the fall is the sound of his own moans.

It takes a minute and a few breaths before his lungs can continue their alternating routine of deflate and expand in a slower, steadier rhythm again.

If Art were to draw Paul’s face, it would be this one. Paul is looking at him with hooded eyes, deeply sated, the tiniest drops of sweat near his hairline. A ghost of a smile playing around his lips and waiting to be born, eyes softening in synchrony with coming down from the high. Paul’s forehead comes to rest on his shoulder, and Art just holds him like he’s made of glass, afraid to drop him on the floor lest he breaks into a thousand shards, unable to be glued together.

Nothing ever could trump their lovemaking, not even the strongest drug. Nothing ever feels worse than its withdrawal symptoms, either. It’s a helter-skelter of a life, but he wouldn’t trade it. Getting Paul in bits and pieces is better than not getting Paul at all, even if every time leaves a bit of shrapnel behind, stuck in his heart for eternity. Art has a whole collection of Paul’s grenade pieces locked away there.

Wordlessly, they disentangle, paper tissues wiping evidence away. Art follows Paul to the bed, where they sink into the mattress and try to stay awake a little longer, just quietly observing one another, caressing, taking each other in, a bit like hoarding food for whenever the time for rationing comes. And it will come, rather soon.

Some time later, when Paul has started to quietly snore, his back plastered to Art’s chest, Art hears the rain starting to fall. Today was good while it lasted. Tomorrow, life will go on and he will have to move on. Tomorrow, he will start rehab, going cold turkey, weaning off Paul, again. Tomorrow, he will lie in bed alone, thinking of things that might have been. In the morning, he will make sure he is gone before Paul wakes up. But he has a few more hours left, and they are not to be wasted. He presses little kisses to Paul’s neck and hair, each of them delicate like the petals of a flower. When a tear threatens to fall, he comforts himself with the knowledge that one day he’ll get to do this again. Like the flowers they used to sing about, they will never bend with the rainfall. They'll bloom together again, magnificent, unending. A tall dandelion and a moody dark rose, nurtured by rainfall from the sky and tears shed.

Rain is still drizzling when he picks up discarded clothes and splinters of broken hearts in the morning. 


End file.
